Azrael's Wings
by whirligig
Summary: Completed. A killer with angelic illusions visits Vegas, forcing some of the CSIs to confront their own demons. GSR. Ch. 7 & 8: Action!Grissom and epilogue.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI, and I don't have any possessions worth litigation.

Summary: A killer with angelic aspirations visits Vegas, forcing several of the CSIs to confront their own demons. Written as a possible S5 finale (before the spoilers came out.) Some violence, language, and sexual implications. And oh yes, GSR.

Spoilers: Season 5

Credits: While real life precluded her actual co-writing with me as we intended, **Rokothepas** was integral and deserves much credit. She insists on not being a co-author, but it should be noted many of the ideas, logic, interpretations and twists were all hers and I wouldn't have thought of them in a million years. Not to mention her endless support ultimately meant this story got finished. Thank you **Roko**!

Notes: Chapter 1 begins with the killer.

* * *

Azrael's Wings

1

Prologue – Excursion

The thought of the approaching summer had definitely been a factor. The humidity combined with the heat was just too claustrophobic. He'd first toyed with the idea of leaving at that point, and the realization that even an extreme dry heat would be welcome had brought on the more important epiphany that his work in Houston was done…at least for the moment. He was tired of hunting here, tired of his routine. Las Vegas? Perfect. Why? So many reasons.

He hummed tunelessly as his car throbbed through the desert. Leaving had been simple and further confirmation he was finally on the path to his mission. The desert was dark now, vast and quiet. He found it comforting.

He thought how his entire life had led up to this. As a kid, he'd felt sorry for himself, and tried to accommodate first the drunkard father who obviously hated him and then all the other kids who had done their best to make him miserable. It became easier when he learned to hate his parents, and easier still when he applied that contempt to every person he came into contact with. People were generally stupid, he discovered quickly. That theory was proven in how easy it had been, in those early days, to rob their houses, steal their cars, and watch their women undetected.

Eventually, he'd learned to live a double life. He found a wife, had a family, and appeared respectable. He made sure to take care of all the little things that would have been the downfall of a lesser being.

He'd always been treated like a zero, and had sometimes wondered if he was even human. He just felt no empathy or interrelation to people at all.

When he finally made his first kill, and felt the indescribable power and joy that followed, that euphoria begged for further scrutiny. It was then he began to have the dreams, some waking, some not. An inkling that he was indeed correct, and he was not a typical human at all, but a being in a higher service. Further experimentation bore this out. He was much too clever and it was a simple matter to evade the police just by following a few simple guidelines. How else to explain it but for the fact being that somehow, the authorities knew him for what he really was, and gave him a wide berth to fulfill his mission? He worked for a higher power, and he was good at his job.

Soon, his human life was just a memory. He had transformed. He had become.

The approaching summer had thus led him to the clue. Houston had become dull. He needed a higher caliber of sinner to hunt. He needed a suitable locale to showcase his metamorphosis. He smiled. Vegas was close now, and events would progress quickly.


	2. Chapter 2 Arrival

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI, and I don't have any possessions worth litigation.

Summary: A killer with angelic aspirations visits Vegas, forcing several of the CSIs to confront their own demons. Written as a possible S5 finale (before the spoilers came out.) Some violence, language, and sexual implications. And oh yes, GSR.

Spoilers: Season 5

Credits: While real life precluded her actual co-writing with me as we intended, **Rokothepas** was integral and deserves much credit. She insists on not being a co-author, but it should be noted many of the ideas, logic, interpretations and twists were all hers and I wouldn't have thought of them in a million years. Not to mention her endless support ultimately meant this story got finished. Thank you **Roko**!

Notes: Catherine, the killer arrives, and the connection.

* * *

Azrael's Wings

2

Arrival

In a modest house miles away, Catherine prepared to go out. Lindsay was at a slumber party, so she didn't have to feel guilty and intended to make the most of the evening.

It had been dangerously easy for her to get back into barhopping. She told herself it was harmless fun, and she wasn't too old, she could still play the game with the best of them. The attention she'd been paid so far proved that to be true. She was under a lot of stress, with a pre-teen and a supervisor's job. Everyone expected perfection, all the time.

The truth was, she was lonely. She missed the old team. She knew she was good at the politics, but she didn't like the person she became playing that game. She was glad to have Warrick and Nick, but she never got to talk to Grissom anymore, and he was the only one who would listen to her rants…even if he pretended he couldn't relate and made obscure comments. Now Grissom was struggling to learn the art of war as it pertained to Ecklie. His team was barely keeping up with their caseload; and Ecklie had it in for all of them, except maybe Greg. Sofia wanted out, and Sara…well, something was up with Sara, that for once had nothing to do with Grissom screwing up, but Catherine had no idea what it was. She just knew it was bad enough Grissom had put his job on the line to protect Sara. She was actually proud of him for that, but had never managed to tell him so.

"I just don't know what the hell is going on anymore. I need a drink, and I need some cute guy to flirt with." Catherine straightened her slinky dress, stared at herself in the mirror, and, satisfied, left for the bar.

- - - -

He drove around Vegas briefly until he found an Econo-Lodge motel in an adult district. He found it distasteful, and decided later he would look into other options. He checked in long enough to shower and had a quick dinner at a cheap diner down the street. He knew he was in the right place. He was very polite to the waitress. She looked tired, poor thing. He always tried to be nice to the insignificant ones.

The lights on the Strip were overwhelming. He drank in the shallow superficiality and felt almost high. He decided to get an overview of the population by going to a casino, and after finding cheap parking and a long walk, found himself at the entrance to the Rio before he hit actually hit Las Vegas Boulevard. He couldn't help but gape for a few minutes.

_What a perfect place man's evil has created for me_, he thought happily.

He attempted some small talk with a few females, choosing women playing slots next to empty machines. They paid him little attention though, intent on their gambling, and the noise was just too overwhelming for him to get past a casual conversation. He decided hunting in a casino would just be too convoluted because of all the distractions. There was no good way to evaluate.

That left the streets and the upscale bars. He headed north, purposefully passing several places to get a feel for the street and the people on it. He knew he was in the right place for the night and getting closer. He wandered into the huge complex that was the Venetian, and ultimately came across the V Bar. He decided he needed a drink.

The bar was elegant and so were its patrons. He wandered around the bar for a time. One young, pretty woman actually smiled at him, and when he said hello, launched into a detailed explanation of her vacation.

"It's been perfect!" she gushed. She was plastered.

"Perfect." Eric smiled, inadvertently snorting a little.

"Are you OK?" she peered at him.

"Yes ma'am. It's a speech impediment. I'm not even drunk yet." He smiled.

"Oh, I can hardly tell!" she smiled, and continued her long description. Eventually he had to excuse himself to the restroom. She certainly wasn't the right target.

He went back to the bar for another drink and noticed a striking blonde at the bar. He stood next to her nervously. She looked to be in her forties, but impeccable, with classic bone structure, perfect skin and blue eyes. She was dressed provocatively but elegantly, and held herself with confidence. He found himself staring as he waited for his drink.

"First night in Vegas." she stated, turning to level her gaze at him. "Never been here before." Her tone was not unkind, just direct.

Eric attempted a smile and went into his country boy mode. "Yep. Texas."

She raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? One of my work buddies is from Texas. Good kid."

"It's a nice place to be from. Nothing there to compare to here, though. Never saw so many lights and heard such a racket in my life. Beautiful women, too." He leered at her just a little, deliberately.

Catherine studied him for a moment. Something about the way he spoke was strange, but she said nothing. She chose to acknowledge his rather pathetic attempt at flirting with one of her trademark laser stares. To her surprise, he didn't cower at all.

"Well," she said, picking up her drink. "It's a fun town, but it can be dangerous. Have a good time, but watch out for yourself." She smiled and turned to go.

"That's an amusing and backward thought," he muttered, watching her. She turned her head and gave him a weird look, like she might have heard him, but she kept walking.

Then he noticed a gorgeous, young brunette, alone at the bar. Several men were watching her and she knew it – coldly relished it. He watched for a few minutes as a couple of men approached her. The first was obviously too old and slightly drunk, and she rolled her eyes with such disgust that Eric decided to pay closer attention. She said something bluntly brutal to the man and he slunk away. The next man was handsome and well dressed. She smiled at him and they talked for a few minutes but it seemed one of his answers didn't please her, and she stalked off. Eric approached her from behind.

"You look upset," he said smoothly. She turned to face him, her eyes appraising him.

"I'm fine." She said coldly. Her mouth twitched; from the way she looked him up and down it was apparent she didn't find his appearance up to her standards. He decided to try a friendly approach.

"I guess I'm an evident tourist," chuckled Eric, "I was wondering if the restaurants here at the Venetian were any good?"

She glared at him. "Are you drunk or do you just talk funny? Look, you're way out of your league, asshole. Go ask the bartender, or go hit on somebody else." She whirled in another direction and walked away from him.

_This is the bitch I want tonight, _he thought angrily, and his decision was made. He watched the direction the brunette took.

He waited a safe distance from her for another hour, until she finally left, then followed her out into the street. Soon he was driving behind her car. He followed her for miles out into the suburbs. She never even noticed he was there.

Eventually she pulled into an apartment complex; he quickly parked on the street, grabbed his bag and walked in on foot, watching her as she got out of her car and walked to her unit without even glancing around. She staggered slightly on the steps and he smiled, pleased. She was completely unaware and wouldn't stay up long if she were drunk.

He waited for an hour after the last light went out in the apartment. There was plenty of manicured landscaping to hide in and no one was around. He turned on his mini Mag-Lite and looked for any obvious signs of an alarm system. Finding none, he took the knife from his pocket and made quiet, quick work of the screen on the front porch window, safely obscured by her balcony. He was inside in just a few seconds, and didn't make a sound climbing over the few scraggly houseplants on the table she had underneath the window.

He quickly prepared himself in the dark, using the contents from his bag. He stopped in the bathroom long enough to find the inevitable nylons hanging on the shower rod – women were so predictable – and crawled into the bedroom.

Before he gagged her, he allowed her to plead for her life a few minutes, as she stared at him wide-eyed, immobile beneath him. The pathetic creature didn't even recognize him from the bar.

"I was beneath you," he snarled. "Who is beneath me now? I'll release you eventually, but as a sinner, you must suffer first." She went rigid, then limp with fear.

He only knocked her unconscious as necessary to stop her muffled screams when they increased in volume too much for his liking. He took his time with the knife in various areas before finally slitting her throat.


	3. Chapter 3 Descent

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI, and I don't have any possessions worth litigation.

Summary: A killer with angelic illusions visits Vegas, forcing some of the CSIs to confront their own demons. GSR. The crimes escalate, Sara's past surfaces, and Grissom has more to worry about than the case.  
Spoilers: Season 5  
Credits: While real life precluded her actual co-writing with me as we intended, **Rokothepas** was integral and deserves much credit. She insists on not being a co-author, but it should be noted many of the ideas, logic, interpretations and twists were all hers and I wouldn't have thought of them in a million years. Not to mention her endless support ultimately meant this story got finished. Thank you Roko!

Notes: The letter arrives. Grissom and Sara enter the case.

_Thank you Chicklit, djkittycat, Kimber McLeod, and CSIFan4Life for the reviews! They are much appreciated : )_

* * *

Azrael's Wings

3

Descent

Ronnie came in early to work on the letter, after a frantic call from Catherine. He didn't even consider being flattered that she wanted him rather than the day shift document analyst. The serial case had snowballed in a short twenty-four hours, with two more killings, and the entire lab was working under a grim, furious haze.

He knew she wanted him to get a jump-start on the document before Grissom's team got there for graveyard. There had just been a third killing on her shift. She spoke to him in a rough, dead monotone, which almost scared him more than the case itself or the fact that Ecklie was hovering constantly over the entire lab. Ecklie didn't even try to mask the fact that he was just waiting for swing or graveyard shift to mess this one up.

Ronnie got to the lab in record time. Catherine gave him a look of grateful relief as she handed over the letter and rushed off to meet Warrick and Nick at the latest scene. It made him feel more needed than he ever had. He pushed the positive feelings aside, feeling selfish, and got to work.

By the time Grissom arrived, also early for his shift, Ronnie had done a preliminary analysis and was far enough along to have transcribed the letter, prepared it for Grissom to examine safely, and have it checked for prints. There were none. Grissom came straight to the document room; Sara was on his heels.

"It's right there." Ronnie gestured to the letter on the table, sealed, with a handwritten transcript next to it for Grissom to take with him. "No prints. Standard office-supply paper, nothing easily traceable. No surprises. I'm working on the handwriting analysis now."

"I'll want to do a profile as soon as you're finished." Grissom reached for his glasses. Sara shifted uneasily.

"I should be ready for that in about an hour. Catherine and the guys are still at the third scene, I assume you have the rundown from her on that."

Grissom nodded bleakly. "Thanks, Ronnie." Sara attempted a smile in Ronnie's direction as they moved towards the table. If the circles under her eyes were any indication, the speed and stress of the case was taking a toll on even her infamous stamina. Ronnie bent back over his copies of the writing, and Grissom stared at the letter.

It was written on typical yellow legal pad paper, the handwriting small and disjointed, letters almost crunched together, but very legible:

_"They have never caught me and they never will. They have never seen me, for I am invisible, even as the ether that surrounds your earth. I am not a human being, but a spirit and a fell demon from the hottest hell. _

_When I see fit, I shall come again and claim other victims. I alone know who they shall be. I shall leave no clue except the blood of those whom I have sent below to keep me company._

_If you wish you may tell the police not to rile me. Of course I am a reasonable spirit. I take no offense at the way they have conducted their investigation in the past. In fact, they have been so utterly stupid as to amuse not only me but also His Satanic Majesty. But tell them to beware. Let them not try to discover what I am, for it were better that they were never born than to incur my wrath. I don't think there is any need of such a warning, for I feel sure the police will always dodge me, as they have in the past. They are wise and know how to keep away from all harm._

_Undoubtedly, you think of me as a most horrible murderer, which I am, but I could be much worse if I wanted to. If I wished, I could pay a visit to your city every night. At will I could slay thousands of your best citizens, for I am in close relationship to the __Archangel Azrael_

_Well, as I am cold and crave the warmth of my native Tartarus, and as it is about time that I leave your earthly home, I will cease my discourse. Hoping that you will publish this, and that it may go well with you, I have been, am and will be the worst spirit that ever existed either in fact or realm of fantasy."_

Instead of a signature, there was a crude drawing of a skull with wings. It was a familiar image, and it made Grissom's temples start to pound.

There had been three killings so far. The first killing had been discovered the afternoon before, falling to Catherine's team. Monica Parker, 27, beautiful, discovered slaughtered in her bed by a colleague. There were no prints, no hairs, and no evidence. Her throat had been slit and she'd had multiple stab wounds, all obviously inflicted for torture, not to kill, and all ante-mortem. She'd been beaten severely about the face, probably every time she'd attempted to fight back. A background check of the girl revealed little other than she was a status-conscious social climber; hardly a standout in Vegas. The most chilling fact was Catherine discovered that she had been at the same bar as Monica, that very night. She had talked to several men and was shaken, wondering if one of them had been the killer. Grissom had been unable to coax her elaborations any further than that.

The night before, Grissom and Sara had been dispatched to the scene of another killing at an abandoned warehouse. Greg was mired in the soon-to-prove-futile task of analyzing the DNA evidence from the first case. They knew almost immediately that the second victim, another young female yet unidentified, was linked to the first, because she had been tortured with a knife the same way and her throat slit. Again, even in the dirty, unused building, there was little evidence the killer had even been there, with one exception: the killer left an image drawn in blood on a wall near the body. It was a skull with wings.

News of the third killing had come this afternoon.

Grissom felt Sara shift slightly closer to him as she stood, reading the letter over his shoulder. He wondered for the hundredth time in the last twenty-four hours how he was supposed to handle the dichotomy that made her so good at her job and at the same time so vulnerable.

- - - -

He'd grown accustomed to her nightmares. The first couple of weeks she had slept soundly, despite warning him, and he'd wanted to believe it was because of his presence. He was almost churlishly disappointed when the dreams started again, but waking to find her rigid next to him, eyes wide and breathing rapidly, trying hard not to wake him despite it all, pushed all thoughts of his own ego aside.

Sometimes she saw her mother in the dreams, but more often it was bits and pieces: the blood, herself walking timidly down the hall, the stillness of the room and her father's body…the utter feeling of being alone, wondering where her mother and brother were.

He would spoon his body behind her, wrapping himself around her like a blanket. He thought maybe if he could make her feel like she was totally enveloped by him, it would help her come close to perceiving the way he felt when he was inside her – complete, loved, just right.

Usually it helped. "I'm sorry. I'll be ok in a minute," she would always say, before drifting back to sleep.

He found himself murmuring whatever he thought comforting. _I should be able to fix this,_ he would think.

This latest serial had triggered something for her. His only conclusion was that somehow this case was combining in her dreams with all the information from her past that she'd been dredging up in the counseling he'd begged her to take. She'd had several sessions, came home drained, and he asked her no questions. He wondered now if counseling had been a good idea.

Her nightmares had changed the night before, and she'd had them non-stop – neither one of them had slept more than a couple of hours. She described seeing a male killer, then an asexual one, but the face was always obscured. She described a feeling of confusion about the killer, and a sense of total alienation for herself. She described smelling the blood in the room. In the worst nightmare, she woke up crying silently.

"I was the killer. Me and my murder gene." She sounded so resigned Grissom felt a chill.

"It's like I'm a part of it, but I'm not," she continued. "It's like there's a piece missing. I don't know why I feel a connection between this and what happened to me. Maybe because I don't understand why any man would be so brutal with a stranger, any more than I've ever understood why my mother, who was always so passive around my father's abuse, could have exhibited such sudden rage?" She sighed. "I don't know. We just need to get the guy."

He was baffled. Sara had always gone relentlessly for at least two days on her most disturbing cases without showing any signs of strain. But early that afternoon, when his phone rang and he was barely registering the fact it was Catherine on the other end, Sara had looked at him wide awake and haunted.

"Grissom. PD just got a letter from our guy. I barely had time to read it when the call came in – we've got another dead girl." Catherine said flatly.

"Letter?" Grissom said confusedly. "He mailed a letter?"

"I just called in Ronnie. He'll process it by the time you get here. I've got to go to the third scene…another twenty-something girl, slashed in a hotel room, another bloody skull on the wall. You probably didn't see the news, either, but there was a leak to the media about the pictures. The media's already reported that and started giving him nicknames."

"Alright," he replied. "I'll be in as soon as I can get there."

Sara was quiet. They alternated between her apartment and his townhouse, and her phone rarely rang if he was there. She had a pretty good idea who was on the other end of the phone.

Their relationship was new and tentative, and Grissom was relentlessly protective of it, not because he cared if anyone found out anymore, but because he wanted an objective chance to prove to Sara that he deserved an opportunity, that he could deliver what she wanted despite all he'd put her through. Hard enough to demonstrate without the entire lab snickering and taking bets. Thankfully she understood that, and hiding it at work wasn't difficult. The most anyone at work could conjecture was that the two of them had regained their soundless communication and were doing their weird geek flirting rituals again. After work, they lived in a new and secret world.

He hung up the phone, and though from his end of the conversation he'd only mentioned the letter, she knew.

"There's another one." Her voice was a monotone. The look she had reminded him of how she'd looked working on Pamela Adler's case, multiplied exponentially.

- - - - -

Sara peered at the letter over Grissom's shoulder. He raised his eyebrow at her and pulled out a chair. "The handwriting analysis is going to take awhile," he said gently. She snorted in frustration.

"We don't have awhile." she replied.

He'd thought all his worrying about Sara would lessen once he got used to spending so much time with her. He'd quickly discovered the opposite to be true. He worried when he had the night off and she was working. He worried when she went to the grocery store by herself. He worried when she was sitting right next to him. She told him that was normal. He'd never really loved anyone before, so he supposed she was right. It wasn't like worry was all there was; most of the time he was astonishingly happy, even at peace, which was strange and wonderful.

The last twenty-four hours, however, brought new depths to his worry. Grissom sighed as they began to go over the letter, wondering how he could divert the implacable Sara.


	4. Ch 4 Scrutiny

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI, and I don't have any possessions worth litigation.

Summary: A killer with angelic aspirations visits Vegas, forcing several of the CSIs to confront their own demons. Written as a possible S5 finale (before the spoilers came out.) Some violence, language, and sexual implications. And oh yes, GSR.

Spoilers: Season 5

Credits: While real life precluded her actual co-writing with me as we intended, **Rokothepas** was integral and deserves much credit. She insists on not being a co-author, but it should be noted many of the ideas, logic, interpretations and twists were all hers and I wouldn't have thought of them in a million years. Not to mention her endless support ultimately meant this story got finished. Thank you Roko!

Notes: After the analysis, events begin to quicken.

_Thanks to djkittycat, CSIFan4Life, Ghibli, phoenix38133, LittleSidle, Marbs, TeenWitch, and Chicklit for the reviews!_

* * *

Azrael's Wings

4

Scrutiny

"It's really not my purview." Ronnie sounded frustrated. "The drawing on the letter certainly seems to match the illustration on the warehouse wall. I'm doubtful it would hold up in court, though."

"It's enough to know it's the same guy." Sara replied.

"I'm not so sure of that," Grissom said calmly, carefully avoiding her intense stare. "In any case, the drawing and content of the letter seems to indicate we've got a suspect whose sanity is in question. Of course, if it's a ploy to get us to think that, we're back at square one. We have no idea if the first two victims are related, since we don't have an identity on the second female yet. Even if Catherine finds another picture on the third scene, we're operating blindly here."

Sara began tapping her fingers on the table, and her mouth twitched. Grissom imperceptibly moved his foot under the table to press against hers.

"Grissom, the media's already calling him the name in the letter – Azrael. How could they have known about that reference?"

"Azrael is the most recognized name for the Angel of Death, originally derived from Hebrew and also used in Islam," Grissom muttered. "It's just a coincidence. The phrase 'the Wings of Azrael' refers to the approach of death; the signs of death coming on the dying."

"That's just great. Kudos to the media for inspiring fear." Sara fumed.

" 'There is no man who lives and, seeing the angel of death, can deliver his soul from his hand'." Grissom quoted. "From an Aramaic translation of Psalm 89."

"Groovy." Sara said.

Grissom sighed. "Ronnie, can you give me a general analysis on the handwriting please?"

"Nothing you can't figure out yourself, Grissom," Ronnie said apologetically. "Indications of above average IQ, attention to detail and organization, some indications typical of a feeling of inferiority. There are lots of unique characteristics that could be matched with another sample, though."

Grissom nodded. "Well, it's more information, at least." Sara pulled out her cell phone almost violently and Grissom and Ronnie both flinched.

"I'm paging Greg. He's got to be done with the DNA comparisons from the two scenes by now."

Ronnie nodded at Grissom and began to retreat. "Page me if you need me." he said.

Greg rushed in momentarily with a pile of printouts and bags containing the wound molds from both cases. He took one look at Sara and sat across the table from Grissom, pushing the molds towards her and the printouts towards Grissom.

"No matching blood samples…but you already guessed that. Only two profiles, both matching the two victims." Greg sighed. "I need coffee," he stated to no one in particular.

"Did you finish fuming the stuff we took from the warehouse?" Sara demanded.

"Yeah." Greg squirmed, looking first at Sara in what he hoped was a confident glare and then at Grissom, pleadingly. "There was nothing. Did you find anything in the stuff _you_ fumed last night?"

"No." she said curtly. "Crap." She muttered.

"You know, _I_ didn't go home. I've been here, people are starting to think I'm _you_," Greg offered, hoping she'd feel guilty enough to let up on the Greggo.

It worked. She gave him a faint smile and ran her hands through her hair. Grissom sighed and put down the DNA paperwork.

"The molds appear to match. That's the good news." Greg said to Grissom as Sara turned them over in her hands. Grissom let her examine the molds for a few minutes before he reached for them. He looked at them briefly and nodded.

"Let's figure out how big this knife is, shall we?" he said. "Greg, unless there's some miracle in the lab we don't know about, you're reprieved."

"I would've figured Azrael would use a sword or something." Sara grumbled.

"Yeah, Angel of Death, I heard that on the news." Greg said excitedly. "They're calling him 'Morbid Angel' too. Did you know that's also the name of a really terrible metal band? I'd be offended, personally."

"The media isn't known for their ethics." Grissom began, but it was too late. Greg was on a roll.

"They're really terrible. The music reeks, and the songs are total satanic clichés." Greg gave Sara and Grissom his best air-guitar impression, making strange crunching noises, and sang,

_"Evil curse is carried forth zombies rage_

Burning holy images in life they were 

_Forced to hail_

_Eternal flames have purified their souls_

_Born again in blasphemy, thy kingdom come."_

"Nah nah nah, nah nah NAH, nah nah NAH." Greg sliced at the strings of the imaginary guitar.

Grissom just stared at him.

"Greg, that's so not what I need to hear right now." Sara shook her head.

"Sorry," Greg tried to look meek. "You almost smiled, though."

It didn't take much work to figure out the molds were from the same weapon, and less work to surmise the length and shape of the knife. Grissom's phone began ringing as Sara was finishing up the documentation.

"I see. What's the address?" Grissom scribbled it down. "Where's Brass, still with swing shift?" he frowned at the response. "I'm sending Sara and Greg. Have a unit there before they arrive, please." He clicked the phone shut. Sara and Greg looked at him warily.

"It appears we have a decomp. Something normal and familiar, but with a twist." Greg grimaced, and Sara rolled her eyes at him.

Grissom ignored them and continued. "It's an apartment complex, a unit just recently rented, which is odd. Tenant is listed as Eric Weisman. Next door neighbor called in a complaint about the smell." He pushed the address towards Sara. "A unit will meet you there."

"Maybe he had a heart attack after moving all his stuff." Greg quipped.

"Maybe he rented the apartment to store bodies in." Sara grumbled.

Grissom peered tiredly at her over his glasses. She glared back, knowing what was coming.

"I need to think. You need a break from the case. Greg, I know you're tired, but you should go too." He stated in his best supervisor voice.

Sara sighed. She knew Grissom was right. She was so tired, the tedium of a decomp might actually be welcome at this point.

"OK." She murmured. Greg didn't look very thrilled, but he got up and followed her out.

"Be careful." Grissom called after them. Sara glanced back at him over her shoulder and gave him a brief grin. He smiled secretly and retreated to his office.

His reprieve didn't last long. Catherine, Nick and Warrick soon arrived, back from the third scene. He heard Cath bark some instructions at them and then she was dropping tiredly in the chair across from his desk.

"Your rundown first," she said. Grissom gave her his update.

"Well, I didn't figure the DNA or fuming would pan out. That would make this all too easy. At least we know the knife was the same. After that creepy letter, I'm not sure what to think. Is he a nut or is he a sadist smart enough to pretend to be a nut?"

"I was pondering that unsuccessfully just now." Grissom replied, rubbing his temples again.

"Did you get any sleep? Doesn't look like it…"

Grissom had a sudden uncharacteristic urge to tell Catherine that no, Sara had kept him up with nightmares all night. He must be really tired.

"Tell me about the scene," he prompted.

"Same scene, different location," she began. "Motel 6. She had ID – Jennifer Houseman, 26. She was apparently in town with two friends on vacation. They were in different rooms; Brass is interviewing them now. They showed up when we were processing the scene, said they'd all been out for drinks the night before and had come back from an uneventful evening of getting drunk. They saw her go into her room alone."

"And the scene?"

Catherine sighed. "More of the same. Lots of torture with a knife, ending in her throat being slit. Glove smudges. A few hairs. We'll take a rape kit, but I'm sure it'll be negative, just like the first two. Bathroom was spotless. Oh, and another skull with wings on the wall."

Warrick and Nick paused in the doorway. Nick's mouth was set in a grim line, and Warrick just looked tired.

"I'm on my way to the interview room," Warrick said. "Not that I think Brass and I will get much useful info from those girls."

Catherine nodded and looked at Nick. "I'm setting up a digital reconstruction of the scene now, and got stuff ready for you to do a splatter analysis while you're waiting on Doc Robbins." Nick stated. He looked at Grissom, noting his exhaustion. "Where's Sara and Greg?"

"I sent them out on a decomp call." Grissom ignored Catherine's look. "It came in a few minutes ago, Sara's tired and Greg's been trapped in the lab with nothing but dead-end evidence. Somebody had to work it, and I figured they could wrap it up quickly and get a break from this. I can call them back in if we need them and send Sofia to the scene when she comes in."

Nick nodded, relieved. He wasn't sure exactly what was going on with Grissom and Sara these days, but he thought things were getting better. Being on a different shift kept him from watching out for Sara, as he was prone to do, and he was glad to see Grissom at least aware of her again.

Catherine's beeper buzzed. "It's Doc. Want to come with?" she asked Grissom.

Grissom sighed and put down his notes. "Well, I'm not getting very far with this."

"I'll wait for you, Catherine. Try to see if we've gotten anywhere on that second ID, too." Nick offered. He and Warrick nodded and left, and Grissom and Catherine stood to head to the morgue.

"So how is Sara these days?" Catherine couldn't resist. She knew something had changed positively between them, she just couldn't find any overt evidence or figure out how far it had gone. It was driving her nuts.

"She's fine, as far as I know." Grissom made a face. He knew what was coming. _I'm too tired for this_, he grumbled inwardly.

"If you don't know, nobody else does. How does she seem off the clock?"

Grissom glared at the coffee pot as they passed it by. He was trying in vain not to react.

"Can we go over the case please?" he growled.

Catherine smirked. They headed towards the morgue and doubtless more frustration.


	5. Chapter 5 Disintegration

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI, and I don't have any possessions worth litigation.

Summary: Sara and Greg find the unexpected, Brass gets a revelation, and Grissom takes matters into his own hands.

Spoilers: Season 5

Credits: While real life precluded her actual co-writing with me as we intended, Rokothepas was integral and deserves much credit. She insists on not being a co-author, but it should be noted many of the ideas, logic, interpretations and twists were all hers and I wouldn't have thought of them in a million years. Not to mention her endless support ultimately meant this story got finished. Thank you Roko!

Notes: _Thanks to Eaglesei, djkittycat, Camilla Sandman, Lysistrata, Maaike, Sunset, Kimber McLeod and CSIFan4Life for the great reviews!_

_

* * *

_

Azrael's Wings

5

Disintegration

Sara and Greg fought the traffic of suburbia as they made their way towards the apartment complex. Sara drove, as usual, occasionally cursing and drumming her fingers on the steering wheel whenever they were stopped. Greg knew she wasn't happy with their assignment. He tried to make light of it.

"I'm so excited. My first decomp," he said sarcastically. "At least I'll only be half-conscious."

She glanced over at him. "You'll wake up fast. Trust me. Dammit!" she swerved to avoid a car that seemed to think it perfectly OK to take up two lanes.

Greg flinched. "You know, Grissom's just looking out for you. You're obsessing again."

Sara started to say something, then changed her mind. "Yeah, well, he should know about obsession," she said, her eyes going soft.

Greg looked at her curiously, but wisely said nothing. Sara risked a sideways look at him. He looked confused. Good. Better that he be thinking about her chasing after Grissom rather than the images she had in her head right now. The number of days in a row she'd come home to double-digit numbers of messages from him on her machine before she'd been brave enough to call him back. The night he'd stared at her for at least a full minute before he'd finally gotten the nerve to kiss her for the first time. The tear she'd pretended not to notice on his cheek, after they'd finally slept together. His insistence on holding her tightly for incredible minutes afterward, every time since then.

She sighed, blinked hard, and shoved a CD into the console. Greg winced as Radiohead started blasting their angst, but he consoled himself, thankful it wasn't Sara McLachlan or some other form of femme-rock.

"Cool," he murmured.

They finally found the apartments, a huge, sprawling complex, and after several twists and turns through its maze located the building. A squad car sat in front of the building, and Sara pulled up, parking beside it. They got their cases out of the back and as Greg slammed the doors, Sara squinted in the sunlight at the officer getting out of the car.

"What's he doing still in the car?" Greg whispered. Sara sighed as she realized it was Officer Fromansky, the officer who Grissom had twice been forced to investigate. He hadn't taken it well, and considered Grissom and all CSIs in general the enemy. Greg knew the history too, Sara could tell from his suddenly impenetrable expression.

Fromansky leaned against the car and waited for them to come to him. Sara tried a smile. "Hi, Officer. Scene clear?"

Fromansky looked at her disdainfully. "Sidle." he stared at Greg.

"Sanders." Greg offered.

Fromansky ignored him. "It stinks to high heaven in there. I wasn't about stay inside."

Sara eyed him, suspicious but not wanting to rile him. "Did you do a walkthrough?"

Fromansky sneered. "Yeah, sure. It's ok." He hadn't, in fact, gone inside. He'd opened the door, been assaulted by the stench, and high-tailed it back to his car. "You kids have fun," he said, opening his car door and climbing back inside.

Greg's mouth opened, but nothing came out. "Wait," Sara said, trying another smile, but secretly wanting to slap the guy. "Where are you going?"

"I'll have to check on a traffic call. I'll come back…maybe." He shut the door.

Sara considered her options. She could fight with Fromansky, causing further friction between him and the lab, or she could just blow it off. She was tired, she was mad, and she vaguely remembered the disturbing look on Grissom's face when he'd told her of his encounters with the officer. It had bothered him enough he'd gone straight to the gun range, and started carrying his weapon again.

"Whatever." She spun on her heel and turned towards Greg, furious.

"Sara, we're supposed to have him with us," Greg implored. "I don't want to get in trouble with Brass."

"He'll be the one that gets in trouble. Come on. Let's get this over with. I'm going to make sure he gets fried for this when we get back."

Fromansky rolled down his window as they started to walk away. "Sidle," he called. Sara looked over her shoulder at him. "Say hello to Grissom for me, you know, when you see him later." He smirked.

Sara narrowed her eyes at him, but Greg was tugging at her sleeve like a little kid. She walked resolutely towards the apartment door, impressing Greg even more with her vocabulary on the way.

- - - - -

Warrick and Brass sat in the interview room, performing an exercise in futility. Jennifer Houseman's two friends were trying hard to come up with any information that would help figure out why she had been targeted, but there was nothing. They hadn't noticed anyone following them, and nothing out of the ordinary had happened the night before. They'd all just been out drinking and flirting, enjoying their vacation. Unfortunately, they'd been so smashed they couldn't say if any of the men they or Jennifer had flirted with had seemed that unusual.

Warrick was frustrated, especially considering the second victim still hadn't been identified, but he tried not to show it. "Hey, it's ok," he said soothingly to the distraught girls. "We'll get this guy. I'm sorry you both have to go through this."

Brass was relieved when a uniform knocked on the door. "Sir, there's a woman on the phone who seems to have information pertinent to this case. I've been told to ask you to speak to her right now."

Brass nodded wearily and looked back at Warrick. "We've done all we can do here. I've got a related phone call, why don't you see these ladies out and meet me in my office." He left without waiting for Warrick's reply.

Brass punched the button on the phone still standing on the other side of his desk.

"This is Captain Brass," he spat.

"Hello, Captain." A wavering female voice answered. "My name is Paula Weisman. Some detective put me through and told me to repeat everything I told him to you directly."

"Hi Paula. Go ahead, start from the beginning."

"Well, I saw a brief thing on TV this morning, I guess it was on CNN, about, about some murders you've just had there? I'm in Houston, but it was CNN you know."

Brass reminded himself for the millionth time in the last day or so to be patient. "Mmmm hmmm."

"We've had some similar murders here, in the last month or so. The police have gotten nowhere. Anyway, uh…" she started to cry, but thankfully stopped herself. "Captain, I think my husband did it, and I think he's there, doing the same thing. He's crazy. He disappeared a few days ago, took his suitcase. I know he's the one doing it."

Brass sat down, rubbed his forehead, and wondered why they'd put this nut through to his office. Warrick sauntered in and sat down, looking at him quizzically. Brass tried once more to be gentle, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. "Mrs. Weisman, what makes you think your husband is connected to our murders? Other than he's crazy?"

Paula Weisman hesitated. She was hardly a domineering woman. "Well, um, at the murders here, they found pictures? A skull with wings, drawn in blood?" She sniffled again. "There was no mention of that on CNN, but I asked your detective about it, and he wouldn't answer me. He put me straight through to you. Have you seen that, Captain?"

Brass opened his eyes. "Yes. Yes, we have. Mrs. Weisman…"

"I found the picture in my house, Captain. I was going through my husband's journal. I never look in his journal, but I've been worried, he just disappeared. I looked last night, and the picture is in there. Along with the words 'sin city' written over and over. This morning, when I saw the TV, I just knew."

Brass retained his calm and spoke to her a few minutes more, then hung up, promptly dialing the Houston PD and scribbling on the notepad Warrick pushed towards him. He hung up again and rounded his desk in one motion.

"Have we got an ID?" Warrick jumped to follow.

"I think so." Brass said grimly. "I need to speak to everyone related to this case, where are they?"

"Nick's in evidence; Cath and Griss are at the autopsy of victim number two, maybe number three by now. Sara and Greg are out on a call."

"Have them all meet me in Evidence at the lab, now." Brass ordered. "I'm going to go brief the people I need to brief, and I'll meet you there."

Within fifteen minutes Brass found all of them but Sara and Greg in the evidence room, including Sofia.

"Where's Ecklie?" he demanded. Everyone looked confused.

"I think he's in a meeting with the sheriff." Sofia offered.

"He's not, I just spoke to the sheriff. Never mind. You should go brief him after this."

"Brass…" Grissom said impatiently. They all looked tense. Catherine rubbed the back of her neck, Warrick looked at Brass imploringly and Nick was rocking on the balls of his feet.

"I just got a call from a woman in Houston. Her husband is the major suspect in a string of very recent murders there, due to her finding evidence in her husband's journal that matches evidence found at the crime scenes. He's been missing for days. The evidence she found, and the evidence at the scenes, are the same bloody drawings we've found. She saw a blurb on CNN this morning about Vegas. The drawings were not mentioned, but she put two and two together."

He watched their faces set in determination.

"She gave me a description. Forty-three, white, dark hair, mustache, 5'11", about 200 lbs. Houston PD is faxing a picture as soon as she shows up to give them one. He talks with a lisp."

Catherine went white. Warrick leaned toward her worriedly. "You OK?" he asked.

She stared at Grissom. "That's the guy. That's the guy who hit on me the other night."

"APB is out on his car. His name is Eric Weisman." Brass continued.

It was Grissom's turn to pale. "Did you say, did you –" he stuttered.

"Oh my God." Catherine exclaimed. "Brass, that's the name on the apartment Sara and Greg went to, for the decomp."

"What?" Brass said. Grissom's eyes were impossibly wide. He was already dialing Sara's number.

Nick was starting to panic. Warrick tried to remain cool. "Brass, who's the officer sent to their scene, call him, now."

Brass snapped open his phone and spoke to the dispatcher. Grissom leaned heavily against the counter, still listening to Sara's phone ring.

They all watched with dread as Brass and Grissom simultaneously snapped shut their phones.

"No answer." Grissom managed to get out.

"Fromansky." Brass said. "Grissom, wait!"

But Grissom was already out the door.


	6. Chapter 6 Powerless

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI, and I don't have any possessions worth litigation.

Summary: A killer with angelic aspirations visits Vegas, forcing several of the CSIs to confront their own demons. Written as a possible S5 finale (before the spoilers came out.) Some violence, language, and sexual implications. And oh yes, GSR.

Spoilers: Season 5

Credits: While real life precluded her actual co-writing with me as we intended, **Rokothepas** was integral and deserves much credit. She insists on not being a co-author, but it should be noted many of the ideas, logic, interpretations and twists were all hers and I wouldn't have thought of them in a million years. Not to mention her endless support ultimately meant this story got finished. Thank you Roko!

Notes: Sara confronts more than one demon.

_Thank you to LittleSidle, LizzySidle, leddy, Eaglesei, CSIFan4Life, Kimber McLeod, september, jbr12476, and TeenWitch for the reviews. It's the nicest way to know you're doing something right, and much appreciated! _

* * *

Azrael's Wings

6

Powerless

Sara turned the knob of the apartment door cautiously and pushed it open, revealing a small entryway with a slight partitioning wall to the right. Past the entry was a modest living room, lit by an overhead light. She could see a darkened doorway leading probably to the bathroom and bedroom off the far left side of the living area, and another darkened area to the right past the entry wall that most likely led to the kitchen.

The apartment was completely empty, and the carpet looked freshly shampooed. There were no boxes or any indication that the new tenant had begun the process of moving in.

She stepped inside hesitantly, holding her flashlight in front of her. Greg moved protectively to her right side as they stepped into the living room.

"I smell it," Sara's voice wavered slightly. Greg nodded. They moved across the living room and to the left towards the doorway. The smell of decomposition, still fairly fresh, she noted, was obviously emanating from the bedroom. But there was also a smell of iron in the air. She shined her flashlight and the beam went far enough to hit the bedroom wall just beyond. It illuminated a spray of blood on the wall. There was a vague indication of a body further inside, on the floor.

_A smell of iron in the air. _She remembered what she'd described to Grissom, the day she'd blown up at Ecklie and Grissom had come to her apartment to confront her.

Suddenly she was thirteen again, coming home from school. The house was strangely quiet. She made her way upstairs and down the hall towards her parent's bedroom, puzzling over the smell. She called out, but no one answered. She pushed open the door hesitantly, staring at the cast-off blood on the wall. She turned and saw her father, lying in a wet pool of blood on the floor. Her mother sat on the bed, her back to the body. A knife lay beside her on the bed. She looked up at Sara, her face tear-stained and exhausted.

Sara reeled. "You killed him!" she shouted.

Suddenly the memory augmented.

"I'm sorry," Her mother sobbed. "I did it for you. He was going to come after you next. I did it for you."

Greg touched her arm. Sara snapped back into the present, jerking her head in shock. She dropped the flashlight, and Greg caught it.

Before Greg could open his mouth, there was the whooshing noise of a fast movement behind them, and too late Sara thought, _I didn't check the kitchen_. She spun to see the flashlight spinning away along the ground, and a dark-haired man running full force into Greg. He slammed his fist into Greg's chin, and Greg fell, slumping into instant unconsciousness.

She went for her gun in a smooth motion, drawing it up and in front of her. Eric Weisman backed away across the room faster than she would have thought possible, drawing a gun of his own as he went. He stopped just in the middle of the living room. And smiled at her.

To her horror, she couldn't fire. All she could think about was the new revelation that she was the reason Laura Sidle had committed murder.

She saw Grissom's face, his expression inscrutable but his eyes making her cry even harder, in her apartment that day, _The mind has its filters, _he had said.

She waited for the boom that would come too late for her to realize the killer was firing a shot. She wondered if she'd even hear it over the pounding in her ears. But Weisman held steady, still smiling. He licked his lips.

"Hello…Sara," he said, reading the nametag on her vest. "I thought I made it evident that the police were not to incur my wrath, and stay clear."

"I'm not an officer. I'm a crime scene investigator," Sara found herself saying mechanically.

Her phone rang suddenly, and it took all her nerve not to jump. They both stood silently until it stopped. She didn't dare look down at her belt to try and read who was calling.

"Do all investigators have eyes as haunted as yours?" Weisman asked. He smiled again. There was not a hint of sanity or anything reasonable in his eyes. "That's as good a topic as any to start with."

Suddenly Sara remembered Fromansky's words to Grissom, as she checked on Greg, still unconscious, from the corner of her eye.

_Someday, you're going to need me or my buddies at a scene – and wouldn't you know it – we all hit traffic on the way._

It was too late to shoot this monster now. She'd missed her chance. If she fired now, he'd kill her and almost certainly Greg too. The only positive was she was certain he knew that no matter how fast he shot, she'd have time to shoot back, and the training to make it count. She searched his eyes, wondering if he cared about dying or if he even thought he was in danger. She couldn't tell.

"We just came here because they got a report about the smell," she said, avoiding his earlier question.

"Oh, that," He waved the gun slightly off Sara towards the bedroom, and brought it back to aim at her chest. "I didn't like the motel, and my funding is limited. I thought it more logical to rent an apartment rather than pay exorbitant fees for a fancy hotel. I'm going to be here a while, in your fair city. There's a lot of work to do."

Sara nodded dumbly.

"She's a fresh kill, I'm surprised she's so full of stench already, but I suppose I shouldn't be. It's just an indication of the severity of her sin, and a confirmation she was a proper target." He watched Sara closely, but she didn't react.

"I was tired," he almost whined. "It's been a long couple of days, the work here is prolific but exhausting. I just slept for the first time since I got here. Next thing I know, some nosy officer is banging on the door, cursing to himself about a little smell."

"He didn't come in, did he?" Sara couldn't help but ask.

"No, _he_ knew better, unlike _you_. You know, your organization should be grateful. I'm making all of your jobs easier, your city safer. Not to mention I've been appointed by the highest authority. My background of being tormented by the scum known as humanity perfectly qualifies me for the job, and I take my appointment very seriously."

Sara didn't know what to say to that. Greg groaned and made a slight movement on the floor. Weisman's gaze didn't waver from Sara's gun, but his mouth tightened.

"Greg, listen to me. Stay quiet and don't move," Sara commanded. Greg stopped immediately. She didn't risk a glance to see if his eyes were open or not. They were. Greg's eyes moved to Weisman, then up to Sara, but he didn't move.

"You look so sad, Sara. There's fire in your eyes, but a great sadness too. Why is that?"

Great, he was back on that. "Everyone has good and bad in their lives," she said.

"Where is the bad for you? I'm curious."

"It's in the past," she replied. "Your um, work, here, it's brought up some bad memories for me, but that's all they are. Just memories." Saying it made it feel true, and Sara felt strangely better for the moment.

"I'm sorry for that. You strike me as a lesser sinner with a quest for truth, and I respect that. I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. However, I don't know if I can extricate you without harm from this situation, Sara, you and your companion. It's beyond my control."

"Please don't hurt him. He's just a kid doing his job."

"You would rather I hurt you and let him go?"

"I don't want you to hurt either one of us."

"Where is the good for you, Sara?"

She sighed. Weisman watched her, and she found it odd that he wanted to know about anything positive; in fact he was almost impatient.

"There's a lot of good in my life. I have good friends, a good job…" she knew any attempts at a feeling of identity with this nut probably wouldn't work, but thought she might as well try. "My job stops a lot of bad people. Sinners, you know? Like your job, in a way."

He waved the hand not holding his gun dismissively. "You're nothing compared to me. But you are beautiful. Tell me, do you even deign to speak to someone like me, or do the men have to be perfect?"

His eyes glittered, and Sara knew she was on dangerous ground. "I'm speaking to you now. I'm not condescending to you. And no, the men don't have to be perfect."

"Is there a non-perfect one for you?" he sneered.

"Yes," she replied. "He's not perfect. Neither am I."

He seemed to consider her words suspiciously, but presently he smiled again.

Sara's arms were getting tired, and she fought to keep any trembling from being obvious. She concentrated on her finger, resting on the trigger, her aim, and kept her gaze on Weisman, but she was wearing thin fast.

"I find your ruminations fascinating," Weisman smirked. He didn't look tired at all. "Tell me more, and perhaps I'll share my thoughts with you. I know that sooner or later your co-workers will notice your absence. Perhaps I'll let you and your friend here go before the sirens reach us. If I like what you say."

They were stuck. This insane killer was obviously starved for conversation and wanted to talk. Sara found herself absurdly philosophical, reflecting that even six months ago, she probably wouldn't have cared and would have shot him anyway, diving towards Greg to shield him. Now, she was just wondering how she could survive. She thought of Grissom, forcing her to eat breakfast before they went to work that day, his only recognition of her sleep-deprived grumblings a raised eyebrow as he pushed the plate towards her. She suddenly wanted, more than anything, to be able to fix breakfast for him tomorrow.


	7. Chapter 7 Fortification

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI, and I don't have any possessions worth litigation.  
Summary: A killer with angelic aspirations visits Vegas, forcing several of the CSIs to confront their own demons. Written as a possible S5 finale (before the spoilers came out.) Some violence, language, and sexual implications. And oh yes, GSR.  
Spoilers: Season 5  
Credits: While real life precluded her actual co-writing with me as we intended, **Rokothepas** was integral and deserves much credit. She insists on not being a co-author, but it should be noted many of the ideas, logic, interpretations and twists were all hers and I wouldn't have thought of them in a million years. Not to mention her endless support ultimately meant this story got finished. Thank you Roko!  
Notes: Action!Grissom. Hee.

_I'm posting the last 2 chapters simultaneously, because Ch. 8 is an epilogue and you guys have been very patient..._

* * *

Azrael's Wings

7

Fortification

Ecklie watched incredulously as first Grissom ran past his office and then a pack consisting of Brass, Catherine, Warrick, Nick and Sofia followed close behind. He managed to get out in the hall just behind Sofia.

"Hey!" he shouted.

Brass paused long enough to bark at Catherine. "I'm going. You guys stay here. I mean it. Stall him." He motioned towards Ecklie, then ran after Grissom, snapping open his phone and barking orders. "I want at least three units. No sirens, I repeat, no sirens, do you understand?"

Catherine made a face, faltered, and stopped. Ecklie had Sofia's arm in his grasp.

Catherine took one look at Nick and Warrick and made a decision. She looked at Sofia.

"Sofia will brief you, Conrad." Sofia looked resigned…angry, but resigned. Catherine turned to Nick and Warrick. "Let's go."

When they got to the parking lot, Grissom and Brass' vehicles were already gone. They piled into the SUV, Warrick shaking his head at Catherine. He got in the driver's seat, Catherine ran to the other side, and Nick jumped in behind Warrick.

"Hurry, Warrick." Nick managed to croak.

"I intend to." Warrick replied.

Grissom concentrated on driving. He fought to stifle a sheer panic of a degree he'd never felt as he drove uncharacteristically fast and mercilessly through traffic.

He tried to force himself to think logically. There was a very good chance that Weisman would not be at the apartment. Maybe he'd rented it just for a killing, although that made little sense. Why would he stay there if he had a body on the premises? It was bound to be noticed sooner or later.

_Because he's crazy. Because he's subconsciously tired of the whole mess and by setting a trap for law enforcement he can end it_, Grissom thought.

That had been his initial reaction and still was, and when Brass had uttered Fromansky's name he just had a strong intuition that something was very, very wrong. Grissom had never put much stock in intuition, of course, but in the short time he'd been with Sara he had discovered he was occasionally capable of it, and more surprisingly, it usually helped.

He wondered where his intuition had been when he'd initially sent them to the scene. The thought of the decomp being related to the case hadn't even crossed his mind. He fought to push away the temptation to beat himself up about it, for now. He had few precious minutes to evaluate and there was no point wasting it on guilt. Guilt could always wait, he knew far too well.

He had no idea what he'd do when he got there. He glanced in his rearview mirror, figuring Brass would have caught up to him by now, but he saw nothing. He hoped Catherine and the others would have the sense to stay behind, but he doubted it. Grissom concluded his best bet, if he had to go into a dangerous situation, was to go in alone if Brass didn't make it on time. If Catherine and the guys were behind them, they needed to keep them safe and keep them out.

He went over logistics, tactical possibilities, and legalities in his mind. Much as he tried, he couldn't keep the thought of losing Sara out. Of course he was concerned about Greg. He didn't think he could forgive himself for the loss of any of his friends. But the thought of losing Sara was a staggering shock he could barely wrap his mind around.

After all they had been through, all he had tried to make right, and the level of happiness he'd achieved that was beyond what he thought possible, Grissom found he could not even consider an existence without her.

Which was of course why he'd resisted the relationship for years in the first place. Ironic now that some random evil was the threat that could take her away, and not his own shortcomings like he'd always thought would be the case.

_I would fight an army for her,_ he realized. _I would die for her, not because I couldn't live without her, but because I'd rather she live than me, given the choice. _

He almost missed the exit, squealing over to the off-ramp and causing chaos in the traffic behind him. Moments later he saw the apartment complex looming, and after a few frantic turns in the maze of parking lots, located the building. He spotted Sara and Greg's SUV and pulled in next to it, scanning the doors above on the second floor. Fromansky's patrol car was nowhere to be seen. Grissom was not surprised, and fought away more guilt.

He drew his gun at the top of the stairs and went to the door, which was ajar. He confirmed the number on the apartment as correct, and without moving the door, carefully looked inside. He was thankful for the open door and the overhead light being on inside.

All he could see initially was the looming back of Eric Weisman. Grissom squeezed around the door very carefully into the entryway and turned slightly, raising his weapon. Only then did he realize Weisman was holding a gun.

He was pointing it at Sara, who stood across the room about seven feet from him. Greg lay on the floor to Sara's left. He looked stunned, but otherwise unhurt. His eyes were on the gunman, as were Sara's. Sara was pointing her own gun at Weisman.

"I always found philosophy overrated." Sara said, seemingly in response to Weisman.

"How about theology, then?" Weisman said smoothly.

Grissom put a finger to his lips and stepped silently to one side of Weisman's back, where he was momentarily in Sara and Greg's line of sight. He prayed silently that they wouldn't give him away with their eyes or any other reactions.

Greg blinked twice without taking his eyes off Weisman.

"Theology is like breakfast," Sara stated calmly. "You need it whether you want it or not. If you're lucky, someone is willing to remind you of that."

Grissom fought back a smile, so she wouldn't smile back, and thought about how he'd cajoled her to eat her eggs earlier. It seemed like an awfully long time ago. He thought at that instant she was the bravest and smartest person he'd ever met.

He signed to her quickly to hit the deck when he gave the signal, and stepped back behind Weisman, out of her line of sight. He risked a long sideways glance out the door, but Brass was still nowhere in sight. Not surprising. Grissom guessed it had been just over a minute since he'd gotten to the door.

He knew he had no choice. All he could hope for was that Weisman would spin around towards him, gun still up, so it would be a clean shoot. Hopefully Weisman's weapon wouldn't discharge until Sara was out of the line of fire.

Grissom took a deep breath, then roared. "Drop the weapon!"

Weisman spun immediately. Thankfully he went counter-clockwise, away from Sara and Greg. Sara dove, as Grissom knew she would, in front of Greg, putting herself prone in front of him. She kept her gun pointed up at Weisman, in case Grissom missed or took a shot from the killer.

Grissom, always worried about being too old, didn't have time to worry for once. Weisman's gun came around towards him and for once in his life, Grissom didn't hesitate.

He fired four shots into Weisman's chest as he dropped to the floor, trying to avoid Weisman's line of fire. Weisman shot at least two rounds out of reflex. The noise was deafening.

Eric Weisman had a look of sheer puzzlement as he fell, and then a brief expression of disappointment. He'd really been enjoying his talk with Sara. He looked briefly at Grissom, to see who had shot him, and died.

Grissom sat in shock for a few seconds. He shook his head slightly, holstered his gun, and grimly leaned over to check for a pulse on Weisman. There was none.

"Grissom. Are you hit? Grissom!" Sara said desperately.

He looked up. Sara had holstered her gun and she and Greg sat huddled in the corner. Sara tried to get up on her knees and fell sideways. Satisfied the killer was dead, Grissom went to them and crouched down. She put her hands on his shoulders, holding him at arms' length until she was sure he wasn't bleeding.

"No, no, I'm fine," he said. "Are you both all right?"

"I'm fine," Greg said loudly. "I can't hear anything, though."

Grissom looked worriedly at Sara, but saw no injuries.

"I just can't get up. Shock or something. I'm fine." her voice cracked on the last sentence, and Grissom took her into his arms without hesitation.

"I'm so sorry. You both could have died." Grissom muttered.

Sara allowed herself to mold against him, hiding her face under his chin. He felt a few tears.

"I couldn't shoot him, Grissom. I just stood there. _I just stood there_," she cried angrily.

"So much for your murder gene," Grissom said, kissing the top of her head. She stifled a sob. "You did just fine. It's over."

Greg stared at them. "Did I miss something? Am I going to get in trouble for seeing this later?" he asked loudly.

Brass exploded into the room with his gun drawn, followed by three uniforms. He'd heard the shots as they pulled into the parking lot, and feared the worst.

"Thank God," Brass exclaimed, seeing that they were all in one piece. He took in Weisman's body, Grissom and Sara practically stuck together, and Greg's confused look in one glance.

"Gil, you scared the shit out of me. If you ever do that again, I won't be held responsible, I really won't. What happened?" The uniforms fanned out, one checking the body, one posting himself at the door and the other calling for an ambulance.

"I shot him." Grissom said simply. Sara attempted to extricate herself, hearing Brass, but Grissom held her tighter.

"I came in to find Weisman and Sara in a standoff, weapons drawn. Luckily I was behind him. I told him to drop his weapon, and when he turned, aiming at me, I fired. I think he fired too, but none of us are hit. I believe Greg was knocked out, he needs to be checked. Sara should be checked too, just to be safe. They're both in shock." Grissom removed a hand from Sara long enough to hand Brass his gun.

"So are you, most likely," Brass retorted. "There's an ambulance on the way. Along with the rest of the geek squad."

Sara lifted her head. "Fromansky was here, Brass, but he wouldn't go in with us. He lied and said the scene was clear. The killer told me himself Fromansky never came inside. He drove off before we were even up the stairs."

Brass regarded her gently. "OK, kiddo. Leave that to me."

"I want you to kick his ass." Sara fumed.

"Trust me. He's toast." Brass replied, with some amusement. Sara tried once again, half-heartedly, to disentangle herself from Grissom, with no success. Brass winked at her, ignoring Grissom's glare as he turned to meet Catherine, Nick and Warrick storming through the door.


	8. Chapter 8 Recall & Ascent

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI, and I don't have any possessions worth litigation.

Summary: A killer with angelic aspirations visits Vegas, forcing several of the CSIs to confront their own demons. Written as a possible S5 finale (before the spoilers came out.) Some violence, language, and sexual implications. And oh yes, GSR.

Spoilers: Season 5

Credits: While real life precluded her actual co-writing with me as we intended, **Rokothepas** was integral and deserves much credit. She insists on not being a co-author, but it should be noted many of the ideas, logic, interpretations and twists were all hers and I wouldn't have thought of them in a million years. Not to mention her endless support ultimately meant this story got finished. Thank you Roko!

Notes: The aftermath, with some ending GSR.

_Thanks for the most recent reviews from: LittleSidle, Camilla Sandman, Eaglesei, CSIFan4Life, leddy, Lizzy Sidle, Amanda, Sunset, and Chicklit (hey Chicklit, I'm waiting for your next story!) Thank you all very much for your input and encouragement throughout -- writing is a real struggle for me and sometimes feedback is the only thing that keeps me going. It's appreciated hugely!_

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Azrael's Wings

8

Epilogue – Recall and Ascent

The upheaval in the media worked in their favor, for once. The city was relieved that Weisman had been caught and the media scrambled for gory details once the connection between Weisman's Vegas and Houston killings was made public. Sara and Greg were evaluated, counseled and dismissed quickly, thanks to Brass' insistence. He wanted that out of the way so he could quietly and quickly put Grissom's shooting to rest.

Grissom was cleared for a clean shoot promptly by the department. The sheriff was much more concerned over the facts that Fromansky had left the scene, and Ecklie had been conspicuously unavailable and uninvolved with the whole investigation. The swing and graveyard shift watched almost in disbelief at their luck as Ecklie received a formal reprimand and investigation and Fromansky was fired.

Ecklie found himself demoted in the whirlwind that followed, and Catherine, to her surprise, found herself the candidate for day shift supervisor, as Ecklie was being forced to swing. Catherine was still deciding what she would do, but since she knew Ecklie's team would most likely follow him, she asked and received permission for Nick and Warrick to go back to graveyard, at their request. Catherine was still trying to come to grips with the fact that she had met the killer, realized he was odd, and had said little or nothing to the others.

Grissom hadn't stuck around the lab long after his initial interview for the shooting. For once he didn't particularly care how the lab worked things out. He collected an exhausted Sara and watched the events unfold from his couch, on his TV and via Catherine and Brass on the phone. Sara slept sprawled across him for a straight eight hours. Grissom was glad for the silence. He still had an extremely difficult time expressing himself to her in actual words. By the time she woke up, everything was settled.

"I'm just sorry you had to kill someone," she said.

"I'd do it again, given the circumstances." That was all he would say on the subject.

She was still troubled by something, and late the next evening, he finally drew it out of her. "Sara," he said quietly. "Tell me what happened in there, so we can put it behind us."

"I remembered," she said simply. "I never knew before, why my mom killed my dad. When I walked into that scene, for some reason it finally came back."

She looked at him steadily. "She killed him for me. She told me, when I found them, that he was coming after me next, and that's why she did it. I guess I blocked it out all these years because I felt guilty. Guilty because I still loved him, guilty because I was angry at her, and guilty because she took all the blame for me."

He processed that information for a long few minutes. "You realize there's no need for you to feel that way now, don't you?"

"I think so. I don't think I'll be having nightmares anymore. And I think…" she faltered. Grissom waited.

"I think I should make contact with her, and let her know I don't hate her, or blame her, anymore." She finally finished.

He nodded wordlessly, and when she went to him, he took her in his arms, burying his face in her shoulder, still amazed she was even there.

"The worst damages can be healed, and anyone can change. You taught me that," she murmured.

"Well, I really am trying." he managed. "I still have my usual difficulties communicating, but I think we're finally getting over the trust thing." She was silent, and after a moment he lifted his head to look at her.

"We have a whole twenty-four hours to relax. I say we spend it communicating without words. You're pretty good at that." She smiled.

He gazed at her relieved, but unsure.

"You can start now," she added.

"I like it when you say 'Now,'" Grissom whispered, and he didn't need any further prompting than that.

End


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